


Hold Me As I Land

by butterpanic



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: Bathing/Washing, F/F, Masturbation, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-19 10:35:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29624982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/butterpanic/pseuds/butterpanic
Summary: They have a ritual, when Isabela returns from the sea.
Relationships: Female Hawke/Isabela
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12
Collections: Black Is Beautiful 2021





	Hold Me As I Land

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CorinaLannister](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CorinaLannister/gifts).



They have a ritual.

They'd tried the big, dramatic disembarking kiss a few times. It had really been quite romantic, the cheers and such, but what had followed was the reality of a docking in port. All sorts of ledgers, payroll to oversee. Inspections and taxes.

Hawke has a guy for that, she says. Well, it's Varric, but she's never been assessed any taxes on the estate since he took over as viscount so she surmises she doesn't owe any.

She certainly hasn't paid any. Perhaps they should all discuss that that the next time they meet for drinks.

No, Isabela has all sorts of dreary important admiral business to attend to and none of it is improved by Hawke's impatient presence at the harbor. Made worse, perhaps, though they never say it outright. In the years that follow, they fall into a comforting routine. Isabela has her business and Hawke has her own, various errands that carry her this way and that. Maybe not a dragon these days but nothing as dull as a ledger. Kirkwall always provides to those who seek.

Hours later, she's letting herself through the heavy door of Hawke's estate. It's far less dramatic an entrance than the dockside kiss, but everything still so familiar it aches in her very bones.

It's funny, that - no matter how long the voyage, Isabela never feels it until she's back on home soil.

She pauses at the bottom of the stairs. Above is home, she knows it, but every unswaying step higher carries the weight of the climb. Maybe this time it's too much.

Isabela takes off her boots. There. That's a start.

The ritual is always the same. Too-familiar boots at the foot of the stairs, the scent of a warm and oiled bath beckoning her down the hall where Hawke waits. She can shed months in the thirteen steps between the landing and the tiled room that holds the ridiculously large bathtub Hawke inherited along with everything else.

Everything is prepared, just how she likes. How they like. The bathwater is steaming and fragrant, the candles lit. Hawke, too. Just how she likes. Eyes feathered at bit at the corners now, wings just like her own. Her lover watches intently as she strips off sea-salted leathers and winds a soft cloth around her curls, then steps gingerly into the bath.

Oh, that is good. Isabela tips her head against the rim of the tub, ages at sea draining away in the gentle eddies of the tiny ocean she's disturbed. She takes a moment to luxuriate in the slow warmth of it all, then extends an expectant hand.

The goblet is presented. A good vintage; extremely good, because Hawke regularly filches bottles from Varric's cellar even though she could certainly afford the same or better now. There'd been cheese and fruit as well, the first few times, but Hawke's aim is terrible if she hasn't got a bow in hand and the grapes are never quite the same once they're a bit soapy.

"I missed you," Hawke murmurs, lips brushing the shell of Isabela's ear.

"Always." Isabela sips her wine as Hawke turns to fetch a cloth, swirling it for a moment in the water above her thighs. Isabela feels the tension in her back unwind as Hawke runs it softly across her bare shoulders, a wake first hot and then cold. She slips further into the water, small warm waves lapping at her chin.

To her credit, Hawke does make a reasonable effort to bathe her properly. The cloth is scrubbed carefully along the nape of her neck; she then lifts each arm and pays it the same dutiful attention. If the next target is her breasts then, well, at least they both can be sure they'll be thoroughly clean. Hawke certainly attacks them with a diligence, and Isabela makes no effort to hide her appreciation. Cloth abandoned, Hawke runs her thumbs across the dark peaks of Isabela's nipples as the water parts with a buck of her hips.

Hawke's lips are a steady certainty against her neck and her fingers daring explorers as they skim down under the water to the meeting of her thighs. Isabela sighs as she parts them to allow access, teasing through her curls as they sway in the current. Hawke's a tease - always has been, even after all these years - and tonight is no different. She dances her fingers so close oh so close but veers off, running maddeningly across her inner thigh. She voices her displeasure with a needy groan and parts the water once more.

She missed her. She missed her, so deep it sat in her bones, ached in the swell of the sea. Hawke calls like the wind in her sails but she can never have them both at the same time. How long can she bear this?

How long can Hawke?

Isabela turns her head, desperate for her lover's lips against her own.

 _I missed you_ , she thinks. It's urgent as Hawke abandons the tease and begins to stroke between her legs in earnest. Isabela grinds her hips and grips Hawke's arm, the muscles tensing under her hand. Hawke has archer's callouses but they're softer than her own rope roughened hands. She's got the rhythm and the pressure right, long years of experience, but as Isabela clutches her muscled bicep the thing that brings her over the threshold is her scent. Damp, familiar, home. Then it's waves, pulsing, her toes curling and the obscene splashes Hawke's hand made of the water fading.

"Come on, you." Hawke's voice has a fond weight of its own. She briefly swishes her fingers around in the cooling water, then rises to fetch a towel. Isabela follows, shivering in the sudden cold. Hawke wraps her in a plush towel - always the best, with Hawke - then helps her carefully step from the tub. As soon as the comforting embrace of the water is lost she realizes how truly tired she is, despite the need still buzzing pleasantly between her thighs. The wine, probably; the very best stuff does have a tendency to sneak up just like this. She slips a bit, dragging wetly against Hawke, and just for a moment Hawke's lips drag maddening against her neck.

Oh, she'd sink right to the floor with this beautiful woman, if not for the fact that the last time they'd done it it had taken ages for them both to summon stiff joints off the cold stone floor.

Instead, they wander towards their bedroom, giggling, unsteady steady when it's each other. Towards safe harbor. Towards home.


End file.
